


The 35 Years Later Affair

by Lixiwei



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jealous Illya, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8963392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lixiwei/pseuds/Lixiwei
Summary: Is Napoleon having an affair with a much younger woman?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Who Else?

May 2002

Maybe this was normal. They certainly had been together a long time—day in, day out, year after year. Thirty-five years next month, as a matter of fact. Maybe Napoleon was bored. With life. With Illya.

Illya was not, after all, a woman. And Napoleon was a man who had once upon a time enjoyed the company of a great many women.

And, however ardently Napoleon might have declared his true love these three-and-a-half decades, Illya knew the Solo eye was still capable of appreciating an attractive specimen, be it female or male, when one happened to pass by.

But could Napoleon be doing more than simply appreciating?

Or perhaps the woman Illya had inadvertently discovered his partner enjoying an al fresco cappuccino with the morning before was nothing more than an old friend.

Except that she was anything but old; she couldn’t be a minute over thirty. An intelligent-looking, Vogue-beautiful dark-eyed brunette with, Illya imagined, legs up to there. She and Napoleon were engaged in an apparently amusing conversation, for every few moments she would smile or laugh. They seemed, from their body language and the way Illya could see her gazing into his eyes, to be well-acquainted indeed…

He’d been in Midtown, enjoying an innocent springtime stroll down Fifth Avenue, when he’d glimpsed the back of Napoleon’s head—he would have known it anywhere—ten feet or so away. And, sitting opposite, the mystery woman. They made a striking couple despite the age difference.

Instinctively, Illya took cover. Even this many years out of the spy business, it was amazing how quickly that particular espionage skill kicked back in. At first he was shocked as he stared surreptitiously at the scene before him. Then his Russian blood boiled.

That morning Napoleon had told him he was off to the doctor for his annual physical.

She didn’t resemble Tone Hobart, M.D. in the least.

Hidden from view, unable to hear their conversation, Illya watched them with mounting anger, at the same time wondering what a girl that young could possibly see in an almost-seventy-year-old man. It wasn’t as if the Kuryakin-Solos, although comfortable enough, were exactly drowning in money. So she couldn’t be after that…unless he was leading her on with false promises of untold wealth, and she was swallowing it hook, line, and sinker.

But that wasn’t like Napoleon. He would never betray Illya.

Would he?

And physically…Certainly a Napoleon at forty or even fifty might appeal to this young woman. But not now; there was too much of an age difference between them, unless this girl was a professional gold digger. Although Napoleon had hardly aged in the eyes of his partner, Illya knew they were both in truth past their prime.

Maybe she had daddy issues. And maybe Napoleon, her flattery feeding his ego, had lost his usual crystal-clear perspective. But surely he was too sophisticated, too wise in the ways of the human heart, to let that happen.

Wasn’t he?

In time they finished their coffee and got up to leave. Illya tailed them half the day, his dismay growing with every step.

First they walked up Fifth to 51st, to a travel agent specializing in European tours. Illya was too far away to make out the destinations on the brochures they pored over, excitedly pointing to this photo or that. He noticed Napoleon was not shy about touching her arm when he was making a point. He only did that with people he felt close to.

Like Illya.

Their next stop was just up the avenue—Medici Real Estate. Illya had often gazed longingly at the listings they’d posted in their windows—homes in the city, in Connecticut and Westchester County…

With an ache he remembered the house he’d fallen in love with years ago. They’d seen the photo in this very window and had even gone out that weekend to take a look. A tiny Victorian cottage on Long Island—the perfect weekend getaway spot, close enough to the Sound so that Napoleon would easily be able to sail his beloved Pursang to his heart’s content and Illya could grow the garden he’d always longed for. It was a pipe dream, though—too rich for their blood way back then. And by the time they could afford it, the property had long since changed hands...

Were this girl and Napoleon searching for a sordid little love nest to share as well as journeying to some exotic clime together?

Finally they headed north, and Illya’s stomach turned over when he saw Napoleon open an elegant glass door and usher the woman into Tiffany & Co. Fifteen minutes passed; he was in agony. They emerged. Napoleon embraced her and planted a quick kiss on her cheek before they parted, she going uptown and he, back down.

His emotions in a tangle, Illya dejectedly made his way home. He silently stewed about it the rest of that day and spent the night tossing and turning, unable to quiet his thoughts, sleepless beside a softly snoring Napoleon.

How could this be happening? He’d thought they were happy and always believed they were bulletproof. They’d been together, a couple, since ’67. June twenty-first of that year—and it really did seem like only yesterday…

* * *

They’d been on assignment in Amsterdam, squelching yet another of THRUSH’s myriad satrapies. It really was such an incompetent organization, Illya remembered remarking at the time; what they needed was to clean house and revise their hiring protocols. The ease with which U.N.C.L.E. could dispatch villains was getting to be almost a joke. Take this particular job. An absolute breeze—the idiot guards were actually asleep at their post, and the THRUSH brass were all drunk in the satrapy’s conference room. It had been the shortest affair on record: in at noon, out by five.

Nevertheless, Solo and Kuryakin had geared up for a long haul, both physically and psychologically. Only this time there had been no close calls, no innocents to save. And as a result, a large quantity of post-mission-related adrenaline still coursed through Napoleon’s veins at five-oh-one.

There was but a single cure for this kind of pent-up energy, Illya knew. He was also quite sure that his partner was not interested in any of the physical attributes he himself possessed to help work off that post-mission rush. How could Fate have been so cruel as to throw Illya constantly, day and night, at someone he worshipped but knew he could never dare woo? Napoleon Solo was strictly a ladies’ man.

Or so Illya had thought.

And as for Napoleon, who kept well-hidden in those days a certain proclivity, he had not yet tasted oude genever.

Oude genever—old gin—changed everything. The mighty wallop it packed gave Napoleon the courage he’d sorely needed for almost two years. Two long years since the realization that he’d fallen utterly, hopelessly in love with his partner.

Unable to fly back to New York until the next day, the pair had secured a room for the night at a small hotel in the city. Illya had supposed his friend would, as he often did, go out on the prowl later and so had purchased a bottle of his favorite Dutch libation to give him something to do for what he thought would be another lonely evening.

As Napoleon was getting dressed to leave, Illya poured a shot for him to try. One taste of the potent, pale-yellow brew was enough.

“Mmm, Sweetheart…where have you been all my life?” he murmured affectionately to his glass.

Napoleon, more often of late casting about for an excuse to spend time with the man of his dreams rather than add another meaningless notch to his bedpost, decided to stay in for the night after all, even if he supposed there wasn’t a chance in the world that his inscrutable partner returned his feelings. Unfortunately for Solo, Illya seemed to care for little but three things: his job, his jazz, and his next meal. Certainly along the way there had been a few girls—Marion Raven, Ursula Baldwin—who’d been obviously interested in the taciturn Russian, but it seemed to Napoleon the interest really hadn’t been mutual. It was as though Illya had just thought it part of the job, for the relationships fizzled out practically before they’d begun. Neither had Napoleon ever seen his partner look twice at a man. He concluded some people must just not be interested in les affaires de coeur and so sadly journeyed on, satisfying his carnal needs when required while suppressing those of his unhappy heart.

As dusk turned to dark the two of them, sprawled out on the big bed in their room, drank more of that bottle than they probably should have, until about eight o’clock when Napoleon, riding a gigantic wave of liquid courage, turned to his partner, looked him straight in the eye and declared, “I love you, Illya.”

Solo, though inebriated, was not so drunk that he didn’t realize what he was doing. Emboldened by this particular kind, not to mention volume, of liquor, he enacted a plan he’d made long ago but never until now had the temerity to try. He’d deliberately said the words in a congenial yet matter-of-fact sort of way, rather than an ardent one, hoping against hope that the oude genever had lowered his partner’s guard enough to let his honest reaction show. And he wasn’t disappointed. After an initial blink of astonishment, Illya’s face lit up, for an instant, in pure rapture—the look was unmistakable and told Solo all he needed to know—before that same joyous look was expunged a scant half-second later. Illya had naturally assumed, after his vulnerable heart had at first leapt upon hearing those three magic words, that Solo meant love in the platonic sense; Napoleon’s tone and expression had made that abundantly clear. Be thankful for his friendship, Illya admonished himself; there can be nothing more. So, smiling fondly and a bit wistfully, he told his friend that he loved him, too.

“No”—suddenly sober olive-brown eyes, all seriousness, sought and held blue—“I mean…I love you.”

The intoxication Illya had been enjoying instantly evaporated at these words, and he stared in amazement at his partner. At that, Solo threw any remaining semblance of caution to the wind and continued, this time with emotion, “I fell in love with you the day we met, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Thus committed, Napoleon leaned over and kissed the younger man full on the mouth. Illya was utterly gobsmacked. Nevertheless, he adjusted quickly. Not missing a beat, and with burgeoning excitement, he kissed Napoleon back. And the passion he’d long harbored for the senior agent surged.

They spent the rest of that night making up three years’ worth of lost time and decided, on the bleary-eyed flight back home, that it would be professional suicide not to tell Alexander Waverly. That venerable gentleman officially frowned on U.N.C.L.E. liaisons but had often seen this happen in the field. Wisely realizing that the feelings avowed by his two best agents gave them even greater incentive to keep each other alive, he merely proffered his best wishes to the duo and then looked the other way.

Four months later Illya packed his belongings and moved into Napoleon’s apartment, where the pair happily set up housekeeping, their love only deepening with each passing year.

They’d been together ever since. Illya thought they’d be together forever.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

* * *

It was almost eleven when Illya woke with a start. Sleep had finally overtaken him as the sun was rising. He was alone in their bed; the apartment was quiet.

“Napoleon?” he called.

No answer. Out already—probably with the girl.

He took a quick shower, then busied himself in the kitchen. As he broke a solitary egg into the frying pan, he heard his partner’s key in the lock and a soft click as the front door opened. Automatically reaching for a second egg, he wondered with a fresh jab of pain how much longer he’d be hearing those comforting coming-home sounds, how much longer he’d be fixing breakfast for two. And got angry all over again.

Napoleon came in carrying a bag of groceries.

“You’re up late this morning,” he said as he pecked Illya on the cheek and began putting food away.

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Ah. Perhaps you need more exercise.”

“I took a long walk yesterday,” Illya countered. “Up Fifth,” he added deliberately.

Solo didn’t seem to notice. “Did you? I hope that second egg’s not for me. I’ve already eaten. I wouldn’t say no to a piece of toast, though.”

With his spatula Illya picked up the unwanted egg, not yet fully fried, and, glaring at his friend, dumped it into the wastebasket. But Napoleon didn’t see. He was too busy, Illya noticed, quietly placing a jar of peanut butter in the cupboard.

Neither of them liked peanut butter.

Illya, fuming, turned his attention to the toaster, then poured out coffee and juice.

His partner was occupied with his own thoughts and so hadn’t noticed Illya’s cooler-than-usual demeanor. It wasn’t until several minutes after they sat down to eat that he had an inkling something might be amiss.

“How was your doctor’s appointment yesterday?” Illya asked, summoning all the ice he could muster into his tone.

“Fine, fine.” Napoleon turned a page of the newspaper he had buried his head in and took a bite of the toast Illya had purposely burned. “Hobart sends his regards.”

“Does he indeed?”

“Is our toaster going? It seems a little dark this morning.”

“Mine is alright.”

Napoleon lowered the Times and saw that the toast on Illya’s plate was indeed pale, perfect golden-brown. He looked up into eyes crackling with rage and, finally realizing his partner might be something less than happy, sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong?” came the tight-lipped reply.

Napoleon smiled grimly. “The look on your face, for one thing. It’s the exact look you had just before you tried to annihilate that THRUSH potentate in Dubai—what was his name?—who was about to feed me to his pet alligator.”

“You mean Sheik Abdül Abdülmecid? A pity I ruined his good looks rescuing you. I found myself rather attracted to him.”

Solo raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sounds like maybe you wish I’d been alligator chow after all.”

“Next time you just might be,” Illya snarled.

“Is that a threat?”

“If we ever run into Abdül again it’s a promise.”

Napoleon was puzzled. Their love-play used to be peppered with this kind of pseudo-menacing banter, but that was a while ago; there hadn’t been much romance lately. Although he strongly suspected the former, he wasn’t sure if Illya was up in arms or in the mood.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Why are you being so cryptic?”

Illya’s only answer was a withering look.

Now certain that his partner was angry but just as certain he himself had no clue why, Napoleon looked back at him for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last, “When you decide to tell me what’s wrong, I’ll be here to listen. In the meantime, when you go to the library today, will you see if you can find—”

“I don’t believe I’ll be going to the library today.”

“But it’s Friday. You go to the library every Friday. At noon. Like clockwork.”

“Not today. I’m still tired.” Illya wanted to see what Napoleon would do now; he and the girl must be meeting there for a lunchtime tryst. Why else would there be peanut butter in the house? “I might take a nap instead.”

Napoleon sighed again, then said, “Fine. Suit yourself.” He glanced at his watch, got up from the table and went into the bathroom.

Kuryakin heard the tap being turned on. He snuck up and put his ear to the door and after a few seconds heard Napoleon’s voice in a one-sided conversation, apparently talking on his cell phone. Illya thought he heard the word “library,” but couldn’t make out anything else.

When Napoleon emerged several minutes later, he found the breakfast dishes hastily washed and Illya sitting quietly on the sofa, book in hand. He picked up his own paperback and, settling into the opposite corner, began to read.

They sat together without conversation, absorbed in their tomes, until twelve, when Illya stood up, stretched, and said, “I believe I will head uptown after all. I’ve finished both my books and I see they’re almost due. What did you want me to find for you? Lolita, perhaps?”

That remark garnered yet another inquisitive look, followed by a frown and Napoleon’s answer: “How about Dealing with Difficult People instead?”

Illya left the apartment and headed toward Fifth Avenue. When he was certain Napoleon would no longer be watching to make sure he was really on his way uptown, he circled the block and returned to stake out their building from the lobby of the flats across the street. His was certain his partner had re-phoned the mystery woman the moment Illya had left to tell her the coast was clear. He had a feeling he’d soon be seeing her, and sure enough he was correct. She arrived by cab. She was dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase. A briefcase full of heaven knew what. Illya imagined a filmy negligee…mink-lined handcuffs… all kinds of mischief that might fit inside… He gave her a few minutes to reach the top floor, then made his way upstairs and silently let himself in.

Hearing subdued laughter from the dining room, he steeled himself and turned the corner to confront the pair.

They were sitting side-by-side at the table. Fully clothed, Illya noted with relief. Her opened briefcase was before her; she removed from it a legal-sized document, and a pen, and set them before Napoleon. Next to her case was a sandwich: PB&J. Along with a glass of milk.

It all looked perfectly harmless.

He coughed delicately. They turned their heads in unison. The girl smiled, looking a bit confused, and rose. Solo followed suit.

“I forgot my library card,” Illya lied. Long out of practice, it didn’t sound convincing even to him, and from the black look Napoleon threw his way Illya could tell he probably wasn’t buying it either.

“Well, what do you know?” Solo answered benignly, the lightness of his tone completely at odds with the glare on his face, “I guess there’s a first time for everything.” He turned with warmth to address the young woman. “Maria Solo, may I introduce my partner, Illya Kuryakin? Illya,”—another scowl—“my cousin Maria.”

“Your—cousin?” the Russian gulped. Napoleon had mentioned a Cousin Maria somewhere in the States but he never would have thought it was this girl. He’d assumed she was their age.

“First cousin, once removed, actually,” Napoleon replied. “Maria’s grandfather and my father were brothers.”

“Oh. Pleased to meet you, Maria.” Illya reached out to shake hands, wondering if he looked as mortified as he felt: the awful things he’d thought about her.

She embraced him instead. “Ah, Illya!” she exclaimed warmly. She had a trace of old-country accent. “Napoleon has told me so many wonderful things about you I feel as if we’re old friends. But I guess we are in-laws of a kind.” Her smile was lovely; he could see she had the distinctive burnished-gold Solo coloring. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that before. She had the Solo charm, too. He smiled back at her and knew he was going to like Maria Solo. All of a sudden his mood lightened considerably.

“So,” Napoleon said, capturing his friend’s gaze, then motioning his head toward the front door. “Are you going to get your library card and then skedaddle like a good boy?”

Illya, ebullient now—Napoleon still loved him!—smiled wickedly. “But it wouldn’t be polite to leave so soon after meeting your lovely cousin, would it?”

A shake of the head, followed by a frown. “Out. Maria and I are conducting business. You’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Surprise? What surprise? What business? Why can’t I stay?” He was in quite a jovial mood now and feeling positively reckless. His eyes sparkled, like diamonds on an ocean. Maria took one look and, captivated, understood why her cousin had fallen in love with this man. What a beauty he must have been in his day!

Napoleon smiled, rather dangerously Illya noticed, as he closed the gap between himself and his partner, pointing at the library books still clasped in the Russian’s hand. “Why, Illya, wouldn’t that be your card sticking out of that book there?” he asked, all innocence. “Am I mistaken, or don’t you always put your library card in one of the books you’re returning so you won’t forget it?”

Illya blushed and looked down, following Solo’s outstretched finger. “Oh, my,” he answered. “So it is! These old eyes must have missed it…”

Napoleon placed his hands on Kuryakin’s shoulders, turned him around and steered him back the way he had come. “I don’t know what possessed you to come back here today of all days,” he said, “but Maria doesn’t have much time, and the library closes at five, so say goodbye.” He leaned in closer, and for a second Illya thought he was going to kiss his cheek again. “Leave now,” he said instead, very quietly, in Illya’s ear, “or you will pay for it later.”

Illya recognized that tone of voice. “Ahh…lovely to meet you, Maria,” he called toward the dining room as Napoleon marched him to their door. He made strides to the library.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what kind of temper Napoleon would be in when he returned to the apartment several hours later. He opened the door and heard Brubek on the stereo; that was a good sign. The air smelled spicy; he could see a loaf of banana bread cooling on the kitchen counter. Banana bread was Illya’s favorite. The dining room had been vacated; it looked like Cousin Maria had gone on her way.

“I’m home!” he called, setting down his new library books and the bottle of oude genever he’d bought at Astor’s as a peace offering. He rummaged in the bar for two shot glasses.

“In the bedroom. Just about to change the sheets.”

Illya, glasses in one hand, picked the bottle back up with the other and waved it like a white flag in the bedroom’s doorway. “Care for a drink?”

Napoleon was just placing a neatly folded set of fresh bed linens on the dresser. He looked up and, recognizing the brew, grinned. “What a nice idea. Why don’t you pour a couple of shots and come talk to me?” He stretched out on his side of the unmade bed and patted the other side invitingly.

“You seem happier this afternoon,” he commented as Illya, glasses in hand, joined him a moment later.

“I am. Much. But I’m confused. Why have I not met Maria before? And what does she do exactly? And what kind of business were you conducting with her?”

Solo frowned. “Oh, Illya, can’t you leave this alone?” Answered by a stony visage, he sighed yet again. “Alright. I’ll answer your first question but not the others—not yet. You didn’t meet Maria because she’s only been in New York a few months. I only met her myself a couple of weeks ago, and that was by chance. She hadn’t had time to look us up yet. I thought she still lived in California—she moved there from Italy after college. There—satisfied?”

“Yes. But how did you chance to meet her? And why did you two go to the travel agency yesterday? And the realtor?”

“How did you—did you follow us?”

“Yes, and to Tiffany too, I’m afraid. I was walking up Fifth Avenue when I happened to spot the two of you at a café.”

A light bulb clicked on in Napoleon’s brain. “Why, you sneaky—so that’s what’s going on! That’s why you were in such a foul mood this morning. And why you came back here to get that library card we both knew you had all along. You thought I was having an affair with her, didn’t you?”

Contrition flooded Illya’s face. “It looked that way to me. Obviously I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“Obviously.”

“You can hardly blame me, though. She’s a beautiful young woman. And I know you still look when a pretty girl walks by…”

“Well, I’m human: of course I look. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“I meant at a pretty man, gay boy.”

“Oh. I suppose.”

“Like Sheik Abdül Abdülmecid, for instance?”

“Ah, yes, well…about him. I lied about him; I was trying to make you jealous. I actually found the man thoroughly repugnant.”

“Cute, though.”

“He was cute; I’ll give him that. I do feel bad that I demolished his face. But it had to be done. I couldn’t have had you become an appetizer for his alligator… I had no idea she was your cousin,” Illya concluded sheepishly.

Napoleon reached for his partner’s hand and looked gravely into his eyes.

“You idiot,” he said. “Don’t you know I’d never cheat on you? I love you. Look—I might notice a good-looking man or woman here and there but you’re the only one for me. It’s always been that way. I would never have an affair, Illya. Besides, at our age, who’d have the energy for all that lying and sneaking around?”

“Well, we have been together for quite a while,” Illya said. “I thought perhaps you might find me boring.”

“Boring??” Napoleon sputtered. He looked at his friend with utter incredulity, then drew the hand he was still holding to his lips and kissed it. “Listen, my little Russian spitfire. You are many things. Most of them wonderful. And there are times—like today—that you are the most damnably exasperating man on the planet. But you are not, nor have you ever been, boring. I can barely keep up with you let alone be bored. I know I’ve said it countless times before, but I will say it again: I was yours, body and soul, from the minute we met, and it will be that way forever. Don’t you know that by now?”

Illya smiled shyly. “I do…but it’s nice to hear again from time to time. And you know the feeling is mutual: I love you, too… Now why did you and Maria go to Medici Realtors yesterday? Is she buying property?”

Napoleon frowned and shook his head in resignation. “Did I not just mention you’re exasperating? No, Maria’s not buying. We are. She’s our realtor. That’s actually how she and I met. I walked in one day a few weeks ago and she was there working. We introduced ourselves and right away realized we were related.”

“I suppose there aren’t too many Napoleon Solos in the world.”

“Just my grandfather, my double, and me.”

“Your double doesn’t count. He could not possibly be as good a lover…So, we’re moving? Are you going to tell me where, or do I have to guess?”

“We’re not moving.” Napoleon paused and scowled. “This was supposed to be a surprise. For our anniversary. But I guess the cat’s out of the bag, so I might as well tell you…Remember that house on Long Island—years ago—that you liked so much? Well…it came up for sale again—I noticed the listing in Medici’s window—and…I bought it.”

The words took a few seconds to sink in. When they did, Illya was stunned. And, for a minute, incapable of speech. Napoleon had bought him a house? His dream house? No one had ever bought him a house. He had never even lived in a house.

When he found his voice again he was full of questions. “But, how can we afford it? What about the mortgage payments? Are we selling the apartment? What—”

“Hold on,” Napoleon laughed. “Yes, we can afford the house and we can afford the mortgage payments. And we are keeping the apartment—I would never give up this place; it’s our home.”

“But you didn’t put a down payment on it yet.”

“I did.”

“But where did you get the money? Our account balances haven’t changed…”

Illya kept a tight rein on all the finances. He knew every penny that came in and went out.

“Oh, I just liquidated a few assets to get the cash…”

“Assets? What assets?”

Napoleon turned a bit pink, then sheepishly muttered, “Oh, you know…just a couple of things here and there…”

“Things…such as?”

Solo hemmed and hawed, clear stalling. Finally he shrugged. Illya was tenacious as a bulldog when he wanted an answer. Napoleon knew he would never let this go; so might as well tell him. “I sold the Pursang,” he said quietly.

There was a long silence while Illya processed the words. He couldn’t quite believe them.

“You—what? Napoleon!”

Solo’s pride and joy—his sanctuary—was, and had been as long as Illya had known him, his antique sailing yacht. It was small, barely thirty feet from stem to stern, but over the years Napoleon had lovingly restored the old vessel, appointing it with the finest fittings money could buy, until it was a glistening showpiece. Illya thought he practically lived for that boat. How could he have sold what he loved so well?

Napoleon saw the chagrined look on Illya’s face and said, “Well, you always get seasick. How can I enjoy sailing with a seasick first mate?”

“But you could always go out alone. I don’t have to come with you every time.”

“And what fun would that be?”

“But—your boat! I can’t believe you sold it! That boat means everything to you.”

“Not nearly as much as you do.” Napoleon smiled and looked fondly at Illya. “It’s only a boat. I can always rent another.”

“Napoleon…”

“I wanted you to have the house. I want you to have your garden. You deserve it. We deserve it.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t even begin…”

“How about a toast instead? To us.”

“To us.” Illya kissed his partner tenderly, then regarded him with a puzzled eye. “Wait,” he said, “We’re not going on a trip for our anniversary as well, are we? Because that would be far too extravagant. Why the travel agency?”

Napoleon sighed for the fourth time that day. “Honestly, Illya. All my plans rent asunder just because you decide to go for a walk yesterday. Okay, I might as well come clean about that too. Last year—I’m sure you remember, don’t you?—Holland legalized same-sex marriage. I was thinking you and I could go over there and finally make honest men of each other.”

“You want to get married?”

“Of course, as long as it’s to you. And I thought Amsterdam would be the perfect place to do it, since in a way it’s where all this—” he made an encompassing gesture—“began. I thought maybe next month, on the twenty-first. Thirty-five years to the day after...well…” Their eyes held each other’s gaze as they smiled in remembrance.

“Married. I never once in my life thought that I’d get married.”

“May I take that as a ‘yes,’ or must I get down on one knee? Because with that bum leg THRUSH gave me I’m not entirely sure I could get back up again.”

“I would help you.”

“Exactly why I love you so much. You’re always there for me.”

“What if I say no?”

“Are you going to say no?”

Illya thought for a moment. “Of course I will marry you,” he said.

“Well, then…”

“Wait. What about Tiffany? Did you buy our lovely real estate agent a thank-you gift?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes, then shook his head, grinning. “The last of my surprises. Ah, well…in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.” He opened the drawer of his bedside table, withdrew a small blue box, and presented it to Illya. Inside a pair of plain gold bands nestled elegantly together.

“Wedding rings? They’re beautiful!” Illya exclaimed. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“If you don’t like them, we can exchange them, you know. We have thirty days.”

“No. They’re perfect. It’s all perfect. There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“How can I ever find an anniversary gift for you to compare to all this?”

“Hmmm…that’s a tough one…I’ve got it! How about staying with me another thirty-five years?”

“I like that idea,” Illya replied, nodding.

“I thought you would: it doesn’t cost anything.”

“Are you implying I’m cheap?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a scientifically proven fact.”

Illya looked affronted. “I resent that remark, Mr. Solo,” he glowered, one tawny brow cocked.

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And just what do you intend to do about it?”

With a graceful agility belying his age, Illya in answer pounced upon his supine partner. Straddling his body, he grabbed Solo’s wrists and pinned them to the bed. “I have ways of extracting apologies,” he growled, lips perilously close to those of his captive.

“Is that a threat?” Napoleon countered. He couldn’t help smiling. He knew where this was headed—and about time, too. In delicious anticipation he looked up into the blue, blue eyes of his own true love and sneered, “Kuryakin, do your worst.”

Good thing, he thought, that they hadn’t just changed those sheets.


End file.
